I hear a shrill whistle, so cheerful and bright:
"Wheat ripe? Bob White!
Not—not quite!"
When shadows of evening are lengthening slowly,
Ere the night dews lie damp on the meadows again;
As light breezes sweep o'er the soft grass so lowly,
What is it he says? I hear the refrain,
While in the thick verdure he's hid from my sight:
"Good night! Bob White!
Good—good night."